


our day of rust

by GStK



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Dark Rapture, M/M, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 09:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20132809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GStK/pseuds/GStK
Summary: we slip from the side of the boatand do not steer or swim but lieface downward dead man's float.





	our day of rust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PlumTea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlumTea/gifts).

> Second Person PoV. Dark Rapture, Lucilius' HL raid.  
Includes mentions of transphobia, violence, vague self-harm, and implied erotica.

the universe began with a naked singularity.

not a bang, but a pop, and the spreading of infinitesimal particles and waves. over time they assembled themselves into creatures. over time he assembled you, bone marrow and ichor and eyes that can see. he, too, had his eyes, and without the event horizon, he could see you in all your glory.

\-- you twist out that glory now as you drive one of your many blades into the shoulder of the replacement. the singularity shouts out his name; worthless drivel. his companions do the same, and the toy rears up, rejuvenated by positrons that swing around his core.

are you watching, creator? this is what you spawned. this is what the world was destined to become.

they struggle against your mighty power. they struggle like lucifer used to, in your many arguments about the purpose of the world. they struggle like belial, too, the way he had pressed his lips against yours in feverish need, hips rutting, chanting your name like a prayer.

you kick and pivot off the singularity when his blade comes for you. you stain him in his own blood. desperately, he keeps you away from the blue-haired feather, using himself as a human shield. it matters little. you stab your wings straight through him, the power of helel seeping through you. he gasps and writhes in abject need for succor. he receives it from his healer, who you turn your eyes on next.

are you watching, creator? this is what eve does. the one black sin was not repaid in tears but in blood. the blood of all creation will tumble down through the gaps in your fingers.

the pretender was a man who came in black robes and flax hair. the pretender gave you everything you needed to know and sparked a seed in you. the pretender told you, in terms certain to five sigma, that it was you who was the pretender all along. so you shed your leotard and you let down your hair and you chopped it all off, and you covered all of god’s mistakes in white and red and gold. praise be, for you have no equal.

the body you wear now is not your own. perhaps if you were more sentimental, you would be weighed down by its responsibility. he would not like the things you do. he is the reason the spare is here and wielding the primarchs’ wings. you know. you know why they all struggle, and perhaps in a way you can understand, but you are a man of want and efficiency. is there no way to draw further power out of this core?

are you watching, creator? this is what men do when they are pushed to their limit. this is what men do when they realise what you have done to them: the body is a temple and they set fire to it, blue and black arcing upward to the heavens.

for you have no equal.

every fortune you have ever known and every academic theory you have ever wrought blaze out of you at the speed of parsecs. they remain standing, somehow. you tire of this battle. you burn, but you are so tired. you’ll start with him, the spare, and all of your wings and power come down upon him with the force of a white hole. infinite density, pushed outward at the slightest pursing of your lips.

everything is without meaning. why do they continue to struggle? why do they stay on their feet? how did you manage to stay on your feet the night you found out you were not eve and how did you keep your composure when you were told you were nothing but a clone, a replacement. (belial had held you.) belial is dead, now, and you had held your ground by denying all things.

are you watching, lucifer? paradise is lost.

paradise was lost the first moment you drew breath. paradise was gone when you tore at your own skin in a frenzy, trying to escape a body that wasn’t yours. you have never felt the perfect rightness of all your creations, all of  _ his  _ creations -- and that is what makes them lesser than you. that is what allows you to stomp on their hopes and dreams and feet and bones and ash and skin and tear them completely and utterly asunder.

ridiculous, all too ridiculous. they bear down on you like the light. light can only ever travel; it can never have thought, have passion, have meaning. light does not feel pain. light does not understand. darkness understands; entropy understands. entropy is all of the world feeling all of your pain in equal lot, destroyed in its stillness. it’s only right. it’s all too right. so why do they continue to resist?

are you watching, lucifer? rot in your obscurity.

useless maggots like these don’t deserve to have bones. they crush one of your wings, two, seven, ten. the power you had in your hands is so easily ripped from you, but you continue on. until the universe has expelled its last breath on you, you will not let them win. you will not be a lesser copy. everything you longed for, your perfection, your desires, your history: it will all be vanished under the weight of anti-matter breaking itself apart.

blaze. glory. divine. punishment. axions of the apocalypse. the blackness of an orbital. iblis is your vanity. phosphorous is the weapon you wield when your swords break and darkness itself begins to turn against you. the creator was wrong and you are right and you are righteousness, not helel, not the power that is starting to rip itself up inside of you--

\-- not the love that had anchoured you to the floor, the foolish emotions that had welled up --

\-- nor the desires you counted on thirteen fingers and thirteen eyes.

they gun you down. it’s all too ridiculous. bones and ash. ichor.

are you watching, lucifer?

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary adapted by works from Eve Merriam.


End file.
